This Bird's Life

A bird woke me up at 5:30 in the morning today.

I was startled, because that early in the morning, the last thing I expect to hear is a bird cooing through the window. I put a pillow over my head, but that would not block out the cooing. I turned on the TV and tried to zone out, but the cooing was incessant. It would not stop. It was relentless. Finally, I decided that the bird must have really wanted to get my attention. You never know when a bird wants to stop by your window and chat, so you have to take the opportunity when it arises.

I walked over to the window and noticed that the pigeon had started constructing a little nest right on my windowsill. The small creature looked up at me and cooed again, like he recognized me. I could not recognize him. One reason is because I don't think I've ever talked to a pigeon before. Second reason is because all pigeons look alike to me. They're like the Koreans of flying creatures.

"Um, hi bird." I said to the pigeon.

"What up son!" the bird said to me.

Needless to say, this startled me. I had never even met this bird before, and here he was calling me son? Just who did he think he was.

"Not much." I decided to be polite.

"Check it son. Check 'dis crib I be makin'!" The pigeon showed me the little nest he had constructed. It was made of some sticks, a piece of string, and some dead grass. It wasn't much of a nest, but I guess it was home.

"Hey, looks like it's coming along," I said.

"You know, I'm thinking of ordering the fight in a couple of weeks,"

"Yeah, it should be a good one."

"Y'all should come. I'll buy some 40s, invite some bitches. It's gonna be off the chain, son!"

I didn't see any room for bitches and some 40s in his crib, let alone a TV to order the fight on. I didn't want to say anything mean, but someone had to point this out to the small bird.

"I'm just wondering, how can you order it if you don't even have a TV?" I asked him.

The pigeon put his wing on his head and looked down at his nest, as if he just realized that he didn't have a TV.

"Nnow what, you're right. I'll just come by and watch the fight at your place. You can open up the window and just let me in."

This annoyed me greatly. I just met this pigeon, and he's already inviting himself to watch the fight in a couple of weeks? I've never been comfortable just inviting myself to other people's places, even when people make it clear that I'm welcome anytime, so I was a little miffed that some strange bird decided to invite himself over. Plus, it would be kind of weird watching a boxing match with a little bird flying around.

"You know what, I don't think you can come."

The bird cocked his head back, clearly surprised.

"What you talkin' bout son?"

"Listen, I just met you, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm ready to be friends with a bird yet."

"What?"

He seemed confused and hurt, so I tried to explain. "I'm not comfortable with having a bird inside my apartment. There's a lot of furniture here, and I don't want any white shit on any of it. And I have roommates and I'm sure they don't want some bird flying around. It's complicated," I tried to explain.

The pigeon clearly looked hurt. His eyes squinted, and for a second I thought a tear would come down his eye. Then all of a sudden, his face went dark, and he knocked over a twig that held up his house.

"Man, fuck you son!"

I was taken aback. I tried to be polite, and here this pigeon was trying to step to me. I wasn't going to take it.

"Hey, don't talk that way to me. You're just a fucking bird."

"You want to start something, you no-winged motherfucker! I'll fuck you up. I will fuck you up, son!"

I was starting to get pissed.

"You know what, I was going to allow you to live on my windowsill, but you know what? Fuck you bird!" I opened the window and knocked over his nest. The twigs and string and blades of dead grass fell slowly to the ground below. The pigeon watched as his home was destroyed, and turned slowly to look at me.

"I can't believe you did that, son." The pigeon said quietly.

"And another thing," I was still riled up. "Don't fucking call me son anymore. I'm not your son."

The pigeon looked up at me. His eyes weren't angry or threatening. They were sad. His two black eyes carried the sadness of a lot of years, a lot of heartbreak, and a lot of sorrow. They were the eyes of a pigeon that had seen and done much over the years, things that he regretted, things that he wished he could take back, things that he wanted to make better, but couldn't. Because, after all, he was only a pigeon, and there isn't much that a pigeon could do.

"Yes, you are." The pigeon said, matter of factly. Then he took out a gun and shot himself in the face.

As I wiped the blood and feathers off my face, I took a look at the pigeon who had fallen to the ground, laying right beside the shattered home that he had once built, and I realized that what he said was true.

I thought about those who come and go into our lives, and how you never think about the impact you had on them, until it's too late. And you wish that life would grant you a restart, a reset button, so you could go back and do things over again. And if I could do it over again, I would be nicer to that small pigeon. He was, after all, my father.

I buried him on a little hill in the park and said a small prayer. I had only known him for a couple of moments, and some of those moments weren't good (particularly, the part when he shot himself in the face), but I realized something as I packed his lifeless, headless body with dirt. It was 6:00 in the morning, and I was fucking tired.

I went back to bed, and I was quick to fall asleep. And as I got a couple precious hours of rest, I dreamed of a time when there was a bird on my windowsill, and when he woke me up and tried to bond with the son he had never known, and when rejected, had shot himself in the face, and got buried on a hill, able to sleep the good night's sleep that I had not gotten...